


Other Paths

by doozerdoodles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trespasser - Bad Ending, Trespasser - Good Ending, Trespasser DLC, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doozerdoodles/pseuds/doozerdoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poking at the ways things might have turned out differently and peering at alternate universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call It the Nation's War

Dorian hated the sea. It was lovely to swim in and it had always looked quite nice when seen from the verandas of his family’s estate, but actually traversing it left him feeling virulently ill. He kept closing his eyes, hoping the neutral darkness would be kind and make the lurching seem less. It didn’t. All he got when closed his eyes was an additional wave of disorientation and the vivid mental image of that look on his father’s face. Of the look on Alexius’.

He always managed to snap his eyes open before he could make it to recalling his last words with Felix.

The atmosphere on the ship was disconcertingly jovial. There was no one aboard his equal, either in talent or pedigree, and he was given a wide berth because of it. He was grateful for that, at least. Being considered dangerous, in essentially any way, could only be a boon for him now. The crew was deferential to his wealth, if nothing else, and the other passengers, mostly plebeians, didn’t at all care for him but knew better than to be obvious about it. That all suited Dorian just fine. 

Only it left him quite alone for the journey, with nothing except his seasickness to distract him from re-examining his hasty flight from Tevinter, the madness that had seized him when he’d decided to do it, the madness that had seized his father.

Oh, how skilled Dorian was, to punish them both so severely with one simple stroke.

He wrote letters, one to Felix and one to Maeveris. She had to be furious with him, he knew, for all that she would understand the impetus for his departure. It took the entire trip to finish them.

Dorian sealed them when they were done and secured them in a pocket of his robes. When they disembarked, he would make sure the ship’s steward placed them somewhere safe, to go back on the ship and be delivered in Minrathous. He would also make sure the man knew precisely how poor an idea it would be to allow the letters to fall into any hands other than their intended.

The commotion from atop the deck set Dorian’s stomach squirming, and he ascended the stairs from his cabin at the aft to go get his first look at the land for which he was bound. 

He went to the rail and rested his hands over it, trying not to grip too hard. Jutting from the ocean was a rocky archipelago. Beyond it, great stone cliffs that whittled down the coast until they flattened entirely and became beaches. Crystalline sand gave rise to lush, curling trees. It was more foreign than Dorian would have expected. Both his fidgeting unease and unrelenting nausea stilled and fell away from him, replaced with a fledgling understanding of what exactly it was he had done. Leaden dread blossomed in his gut and wound its way up through his limbs, into his chest, slowing his heart.

Seheron looked like a beautiful gem that should have glittered in the sun, but absorbed all the light, instead. No one else seemed to notice, but then, Dorian reasoned, the likelihood of anyone else aboard being a necromancer was  _insubstantial_ , to put it mildly. 

A pall of death clung to the island like a mist, so heavy and strong that Dorian almost thought he could see it. The sun was cresting noon and they would be arrived in Seheron’s main port before it had even begun its descent in earnest, and once they had docked Dorian would be  _tribunus magisterium,_ and there was no turning back.


	2. Character Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love soulmate/soul mark AUs. I get sad thinking about the 'all potential inquisitors are at the conclave: the one you create is the only one to survive it' concept. So, this.

“A soul mark, Commander? Not that I mean to sound surprised-”

“No, it’s quite all right. It appeared rather late in my life. Not until Kirkwall, actually. At the time, I was… not overly concerned with it. There were more pressing matters, and the first throes of lyrium withdrawal are difficult to compete with.”

“And now that we’re all great big heroes with, I hope, some space to breathe?”

“I’m… afraid it’s a moot point. I wasn’t sure, at first, but I’m quite certain, now. That she was at the Conclave. I’ve thought to ask Josephine to look into it, find out who the Trevelyans are, but I can’t imagine that would be… appropriate. Evelyn. Was she a templar? Or a Chantry sister, or-”

“A mage.”

“Right. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter. All the soldiers we lost in the fight against Corypheus, the people we couldn’t save, and I still find myself mourning someone I never met. …It feels foolish.”

“It isn’t.”

“Thank you.”

 

_

 

“Wait, that’s not vitaar.”

“Nah, it’s Qunlat.”

“So it’s a tattoo?”

“Not exactly, boss.”

“…Oh. Oh! You mean you have-”

“ _Have_  a mark.  _Had_ a… you know.”

“Bull. Oh, Bull, ir abelas.”

“Funny thing is, when it happened? Felt it. Like being gored. There’s pain, and then this kind of… hollowness. Happened around the time of the Conclave. Go figure.”

“That’s an awful thing. May I ask what it means? The symbol. It’s their name?”

“See, that’s the funnier thing. Writing’s Qunlat, it says ‘Adaar’. It’s a kind of weapon. A cannon. But Qunari don’t name their children. We get numbers, until we get a title. Titles change.”

“Then… I’m sorry, what does-”

“Means whoever they were, they were probably Tal-Vashoth. Or born of Tal-Vashoth. Either way. Real kick in the teeth.”

“…who they were? Or that they’re gone?”

“Yeah.”

 

-

 

“Oh, wow. What is that? Almost looks like vallaslin. But fancier.”

“Ah, yes. You know there are actually moments I forget it’s there. Well. It _is_ elven, as it happens, you’re correct. I asked Solas what it meant. ‘The journey to a place of hope’, or something along those lines.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it? I can only imagine whoever it belonged to was, as well. Though he might not have been thrilled at the prospect of having a Tevinter as his-"

"...Dorian."

"No, it's. Well. It's... nothing, I suppose. But nevermind. Cabot received a cask of that ale you dug up in the Storm Coast. Let's go drink all of it."

"Sure. Let's."


	3. Mr and Mr Vint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr and Mrs Smith: The Meet Cute
> 
> or Meet Coup, if one prefers. Haha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Alphabetiful's amazing fanart that lives now forever in my brain.

Seheron was a shithole. To be fair, this wasn’t Seheron’s fault: The largest island on the continent, it boasted a particularly lovely range of low mountains adorned with lush emerald trees, and everywhere it met the ocean it did so with glittering, soft beaches. The natives of Seheron boasted large dark eyes and dark, golden brown skin, and got better looking every year thanks to the constant influx of elves defecting from the Imperium or the Qun. It wasn’t the elves’ fault Seheron was a shithole, either. Much like the natives, the elves were mostly interested in running businesses, developing agriculture, fishing, and generally keeping up whatever successful trade they could with the mainlands to the south.

 Unfortunately, maintaining trade was damn near impossible in the middle of an insurgency, which Seheron always was. _Always_. The Imperium had most recently held the bulk of the southern coast, but judging from the distant explosions and the growing presence of increasingly armed Antivan militia (not a bad idea, bringing in a third party to facilitate the movement of the ports to try and keep commerce moving), Hissrad figured that wasn’t going to be the case for much longer. Shit turned over pretty fast when the Magister in charge wound up dead inside a room that locked from the inside.

 Hissrad loved that trick.

 He accepted another neat pour of honey whiskey from the bartender (definitely a possibility for the evening, would’ve been useful for moving through the hotel even more easily than he already had the night before, would have saved him some time in reaching the mark) and finished it in one swallow. The quality of life might’ve been shit on the big island, but at least the booze was decent.

 There was a small ruckus from the open foyer that led into the once-majestic hotel’s lobby and bar. Agitated Antivan voices, Bull’s least favorite kind. Well, second least favorite there was always-

 Tevinter. The eye of the small storm of harried guardsman was Tevinter, and he was maybe the most perfect creature Hissrad had ever laid eyes on. Tall, broad shouldered, nipped in square hips- the lines of the ‘Vint’s body read _strength_ , not a soldier’s, but someone who didn’t fuck around at the gym. He wore linen slacks and a white shirt, not unlike Hissrad’s own, though it was considerably less tight across the Vint’s front, and he’d made an attempt at keeping it tucked in. It had come half out of his waistband, though, and the result was a tiny slice of dusky gold skin that showed when he twisted his body at all, which he did when an Antivan caught his bicep in an unfriendly grip. His eyes were stormy. They caught the light and Hissrad couldn’t for the life of him decide on what color they were, but they were _stormy_ , and sharp, and deep, and the messy tumble of dark hair across his forehead made them stand out all the more. The mustache was actually the last thing Hissrad took in- ridiculous- but oh, man, did it work for him. That hipster bullshit usually drove him nuts, but on this guy-

 Tevinter; no more than thirty; impeccable grooming even in a war zone; vaguely imperious manner and lack of appropriate sense of fear around automatic weapons and, probably, ex-Imperium slaves; expensive clothes, rune engraved on the belt- _and the rings,_ Hissrad noted with a darting glance- he was a damn mage, had to be; but no staff and no entourage. In fact, despite the Vint’s appreciable physique and awe, shit, was that a beauty mark? A real one, too, Hissrad wanted to run his mouth over it to check- everything about the guy screamed _scholar_ and it clicked.

 Another student from the Imperial University come to the island for a summer of studying the remaining Tevinter architecture. It wasn’t uncommon, although when the fighting got bad they tended to clear out. This close to the port of Seheron city, Hissrad had a clear idea of why an Altus was wandering around alone in an active war zone.

 The Altus was watching him, something that was almost surprise on his face, but his expression was too guarded for it to show overmuch. Hissrad could also see the edge of something there- maybe fear. An Altus wandering around alone in an active war zone where everyone hated him on principle, or was about to. The tide turned fast on Seheron. And now he was in what used to be a stronghold of wealthy Tevinter vacationers, and he was faced with a big ass Qunari, instead. Had to be rough.

 The Antivans didn’t seem to care. They’d been tetchy and nervous and had, in the last twenty minutes, started looking for anyone traveling by themselves. Felt like someone had put something in their ear about an assassin, which, given these were Antivans, was pretty fucking hilarious for them to take exception to. Hissrad had picked up on it by eavesdropping through the open windows to the hotel’s front patio, but had avoided being questioned himself. He’d wondered how long he’d get away with it, as more soldiers arrived and felt the need to look busy.

 This must have been his lucky day.

 “Your travel papers,” a lieutenant pressed, jerking the young Vint’s arm a little, “if you please.”

 “Hey, stop,” Hissrad said, never taking his eye off the Altus as he pushed away from the bar and started across the room. The Vint jerked his arm out of the Antivan’s grasp without so much as a sideways glance and made a beeline for Hissrad.

 “He’s with me,” Hissrad said, absently catching the Vint’s elbow even as the young man leaned half into him and said, with a deliciously haughty drawl, to the soldiers, “I’m with him.”

 They didn’t dare look back as they made their way from the lobby, ascending the broad marble staircase that was beginning to crack and maintained a dusting of rubble from where the chandelier above kept pulling at the ceiling with every artillery blast. Two floors and down the right hand hallway that was lined with the doors to rooms on one side and opened to the hotel’s center courtyard on the other. Hissrad got them both into his room and let the Vint close it behind them, then leaned against the wall and watched as the mage tilted his ear to the door, listening.

 They were facing each other. Guns were firing somewhere far away, but Hissrad barely heard them. There was mirth and excitement in the set of the Vint’s mouth and shining from those beautiful, mercurial eyes. Bad idea, Hissrad thought. Bad idea, but, oh, he’s _so_ pretty.

“That was kind,” the Vint said eventually, and his voice was deep. “I’m grateful for your assistance.” Melodious too.

 “Don’t mention it. Feels a little like the fall of- well, whichever empire you’d like, around here. No harm helping out a fellow straggler.”

 The Vint chuckled softly, and looked Hissrad over with an interest that was far from academic, though he managed to play it very close to the vest. Vints. Screwy about all kinds of shit.

 “Tal-Vashoth, then?” he asked, as though there was no shame in it, as though it were any other type of moniker. Hissrad pushed his feelings on the matter down easily.

 “Yeah, well. Only so long you can hang around watching things be broken before you feel like you could start to break, yourself.”

 It was a gamble. He knew he’d won when the Vint’s expression shifted to something complicated. Vulnerable. Though he still held it back. Hissrad couldn’t help wondering what he’d look like with the guard stripped away. With a lot stripped away, to be honest.

 “...Dorian,” the Vint said, extending his hand.

 “...Bull,” Hissrad replied, smiling slow and warm, folding Dorian’s hand inside his own, gratified to see the subtle, dark flush that graced the mage’s cheek.

 “A pleasure,” Dorian said.

 “All mine.”

 


	4. Some Sad Trespasser Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if the Iron Bull hadn't died in battle after betraying the Inquisition?

Dorian comes to him in the aftermath, looking shaken. Given the pains Dorian takes to conceal the depth of any honest emotion, this means he must, in fact, be nothing short of staggered. Nearly broken. It is not a satisfying thought.

Dorian stands out of arms’ reach of the bars, not that he is truly at risk, and is quiet for a long time.

“I don’t understand,” he says eventually. “Or… Perhaps in a way I do, parts of it. But I don’t understand how you could-”

“Compartmentalization,” Hissrad says, and Dorian doesn’t do anything so obvious as wince, but he does go stock still, muscles tight, bunched and frozen.

“…how you could mock him,” Dorian continues, with some effort, and Hissrad tilts his head to look at the bas saarebas more directly.

“When you…” Dorian searches, but Hissrad knows the words most readily available, the ones clamoring to be said, would all come out unkindly, and for whatever reason, Dorian seems reluctant to be unkind.

“When you threw that nickname in his face. He always tried, and perhaps he didn’t succeed every time, but he always tried to do what was best for us. All of us. Not just his friends, but the legions under his command, and care. He loved you, held you in the utmost regard, and then to find you so suddenly not merely an enemy but-”

Dorian swallows, cutting himself off. He trembles, a fine shake in his fingers and throat that Hissrad can make out in the dim light of the gaol.  

 “-so callous,” Dorian finishes softly.

 “Lavellan will get over it,” Hissrad says. “He’s dealt with worse. There will be worse yet to come, I’m sure.”

His chest constricts as Dorian meets his eyes, and Hissrad silently curses the cold of the place, telling himself it’s that which caused the tightness in his own frame. Certainly not the pained set of Dorian’s mouth, the tension around his eyes. The bone deep sadness.

“…You have no answers to demand on your own behalf?” he asks against his better judgement, voice rumbling across the dank stones, as close to gentle as he’ll allow himself to be on the bas saarebas’ behalf. Dorian reacts as though struck, regardless.

“Oh, no,” he answers, voice a breathless, mirthless bark, twisted up with self loathing, “I’m sure I’ve quite a clear understanding of your thoughts on me. I’m only impressed by how long you managed to bear it all. Although there must have been some… pleasure in it.” He almost chokes on the word; looks as though he’ll be sick.

“Sticking it to the Tevinter magister, and all that.”

The pit of Hissrad’s own gut lurches.  _No, it was never that. It wasn’t like that._  He says nothing.

“…I don’t know why I came here,” Dorian says, sounding desperate, voice scraping reedy and sharp from his throat, along the hard surfaces of the dungeon cellar, against Hissrad’s ears. “It is my understanding you are to be executed.”

 _Well, no shit._  They aren’t about to hand out pardons to long-embedded Qunari spies, not even someone as softhearted and forgiving as Lavellan. Hissrad doesn’t offer any reaction. It’s easy to keep still and placid when Dorian is there to focus on, a blur of pain and grief and hurt that Hissrad cannot touch.

“That had become my greatest fear, you know,” Dorian continues, and is either unaware of the tears slipping from the corners of his eyes or does not care enough to wipe them away. “That you would foolishly follow me to the Imperium and I would lose my footing, undo all of my work reforming Tevinter, when I had to step in to stop your execution. Because I would have.”

He is weeping now. It is silent, and contained, but this is what Dorian looks like when he weeps. Proud and unbent even as the core of him tries to fold up into itself. The ache in Hissrad’s chest grows more painful, palpable.

“I wouldn’t have let them take you, not you. Not my-”

The dungeon is silent but for the straining of the leather and fabric around Dorian’s hands, and the breath trapped in his throat and lungs he will not allow to pass his lips; sobs desperately warranted that Hissrad knows Dorian can choke down forever, now. Hissrad has given him the ability. It isn’t a gift. He didn’t want to bestow that skill onto the mage. Not really.

“None of this would be happening if Krem was still here,” Dorian says, almost to himself, though he watches Hissrad. The name sends a jolt through Hissrad’s limbs that he dare not show. He grits his molars together.

“I know that,” Dorian continues, “in my soul, I know it. I suppose it should hurt more, knowing that I wasn’t enough. But if there’s one thing life has taught me so far, it’s that I never am.” He laughs, a brittle chuckle, a gross shadow of the lively, brazen, self-deprecating peal Bull had come to know so well before-

Before he had remembered he was Hissrad. They are both tense and it is awful, for the span of too many heartbeats. Hissrad’s walls have been shored up so well for so long, he wasn’t expecting the exchange with the mage to drain him so.

“I have only one question to ask you,” Dorian manages, having giving up on keeping his voice under control, lifting his head, jaw squared, lashes thick and dark now that they’re damp. He could break apart at any second, but Hissrad knows he won’t.

“Once I have your answer, I will leave. We will not speak again,” he says, almost sobs, and Hissrad finds himself straightening. He remains silent.

“Do you want this?” Dorian asks, and for a moment Hissrad is disoriented, thinks Dorian means  _this_ on a considerably grander scale than he actually does. No, Hissrad does not want this: Dorian irreparably wounded, Hissrad’s execution looming, the failure and the agony all that he’ll leave behind, in the end.

But Dorian means the thing in his hand that he’s holding out toward the bars. Wound around his fingers is a light chain, nearly indestructible, welded by the single greatest master of her craft Hissrad thinks the world may ever know. A heavy, curved shard of a dragon’s tooth hangs from it and looks slick and black and perfect in the low light.

“I don’t know if it means anything to you. If it ever meant anything, though- even to someone who was a fiction- it belongs to y- belonged to him.” Hissrad is having difficulty breathing. His head and his throat are thick.

“Do you want this?” Dorian repeats in a badly shaking whisper. Hissrad unfolds himself from the bench against the wall and moves to the bars. No, he does not want the bas saarebas’ love token. No, he does not want the warped imitation of one of the oldest and rarest symbols under the Qun, does not want to carry a token of all the years of his betrayals and lies piling up into one ultimate cruelty to his death.

Neither does he want to hurt Dorian further. Neither does he want to take his last steps without the weight of the damned thing around his neck. Hard fought, hard won: both the token and what it symbolizes.

“Yes,” he says, and holds his hand out between the bars. If anything, it’s a miscalculation. Dorian gasps out his tears, helpless against them, but still unable to allow himself to vocalize the grief. He reaches across the space between them and lets the tooth sink down into the cradle of Hissrad’s palm, then the chain follows. Their skin does not touch.

Hissrad retracts his hand and affixes the chain around his neck while Dorian spends a moment composing himself, and when it is done and Dorian has managed to cohere into the shape of a man unsundered by betrayal, their eyes meet again.

It was the last they would speak, Dorian said, and a sudden panic wells up under Hissrad’s ribs. The execution will be soon- why delay it? Dorian will not be there to watch, he abhors the practice. This will be his last look, the last time. Hissrad was ready for it in battle, was ready for it at the Viddasala’s command, but now, now he isn’t ready. Bull isn’t ready.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he says, lifting his hands through the bars again, and Dorian sees it in him, the fear and hurt of this final goodbye, and hears something in Hissrad’s voice that stops him. The tears in Dorian’s eyes make them seem larger and darker, reflective and so painfully expressive even in the poor lighting, and when he reaches out to take Hissrad’s hand, fingers twining messily together, squeezing, Hissrad does not look away from them.

He can see the chain that holds the dragon tooth’s other half nestled in the collar of Dorian’s robe. He wears it still. Hissrad’s heart feels as splintered.

Dorian grips his hand another moment, and Hissrad can feel the mage’s pulse, his heartbeat, in his fingertips, and the last vestiges of Dorian’s veneer shatter and offer a glimpse of a pain so immense it could swallow the world. Hissrad hates himself for causing it, and for not being able to soothe it now, and hopes that it is enough to fuel Dorian to whatever end he seeks.

The word sits heavy in Hissrad’s mouth and he longs to say it but dares not.

“Dorian,” he murmurs, and hopes the unspoken word is heard nonetheless. Dorian clutches at him, holds onto him with all of his strength for a moment, the only point of contact that will ever be between them again, then whispers, “Katoh,” and lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH FUCK THAT SAD ASS ENDING REBEL BOYFRIENDS 5EVER


	5. Pure Trespasser Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then they lived happily ever after the end.

Five years didn’t seem so long a stretch of time as it once did. To begin with, the months slipped by at so startling a pace that they accumulated before they could be truly felt. Then there was the matter of age. An individual moment would seem to stretch much longer than it used to, which might have to do with patience, but looking back at the accomplishments of a year or two, the events that filled it, it didn’t seem like so much time.

Until he framed it in terms of  _days spent without the Iron Bull_. Then, five years was a lifetime.

It had been five years, as it happened, since things became too dangerous for Dorian to travel alone, and the border closed down, and the pressure between the old guard and new reached the point at which it could no longer be contained. Quelling a slave rebellion had never been part of Dorian’s plan for the Imperium, though Maeveris had always warned of the potential complication. Certainly Dorian sympathized with their cause- his time in the South had convinced him of many things, and he had been a matter of fact abolitionist the moment he took his seat in the Magisterium- but rebellions were neither gentle, nor subtle, and the violence and unrest would have pulled the Imperium’s walls down around its ears and left nothing standing but either the most ruthless of Maleficar or the most fervent of the rebellion standing. The former would mean all of Dorian’s work was for nought. The latter, almost undoubtedly, that what had once been the Tevinter Imperium would become the next great seat of the Qun. He could allow neither.

So the rebellion had needed to be quelled, and without violence if possible. And they tried. It was more like a civil war, by the end. Being a commander had never been Dorian’s aim, either, but going into year three that had seemed to be what he was.  _Redemptor Imperii_. As far as unofficial titles went, there were certainly far worse he could have picked up. It stuck even after treaties had been drawn and the worst of the fighting had stopped, through two years of negotiation and reform and tense rebuilding, and the exposure and fallout of several Qunari attempts to generate further unrest.

In the spring Dorian would officially be  _Consul_. It wasn’t Archon, but he would still get a fancy chair, surely. Sharing the weight of ruling the Imperium with the first Magister in a thousand years who was not a mage. Dorian wondered if his father would have been proud. He allowed himself to think he might have been.

There was a sense of hope in the Imperium. They had withdrawn from Seheron to tend their own matters, and Dorian had no plans of sending them back any time soon. The three years of earnest fighting and subsequent rebuilding seemed to have everyone all funned out and quite willing to work together to move forward. The fact that the most visibly awful of the Altus class had been brought low during the conflict probably helped some, in that regard. Change had come to Tevinter, far more quickly than Dorian had thought it would. If only the cost hadn’t been quite so high.

He hoped desperately it had been worth paying.

“You’ll be residing in the Archon’s appointments. After a little remodeling, of course,” Maeveris said, drawing a pen tip down a list of items she had yet to address.

“Of course,” Dorian replied, shoving his hands through his hair to rub the tension away, then looping it into a quick bun at the crown of his head and tying it off. “I think sharing the seat of power is quite enough, I don’t want us sharing a commode.”

“You could sell the townhouse,” Maeveris suggested, and he gave her a flat look.

“Yes, because the market for purchasing ostentatious properties in the heart of Minrathous is at such a peak.”

“I know an interested buyer. Government office, actually. We’ll need a secure location to house visiting dignitaries now that the borders have reopened.”

“Oh,” Dorian said, blinking, all other thoughts suddenly vanished. “Yes.”

“Of course, the countryside is still a bit of a mess. If you were going to sell property by the coast, it would be for a pittance.”

“I don’t have… country holdings,” Dorian said, frowning a little. His family estate was in Quarinus, his mother resided in it still. He would never sell it.

“Oh,” Mae said lightly, looking up at with him a bright smile that implied he was being particularly stupid, “what a shame.”

Dorian sold the Pavus’ Minrathous appointments to the government he would soon be at the head of, which he worried was a bit… sly, but no one seemed to care, either about the transaction or his hesitation. That included his soon-to-be joint Consul, who actually rolled her eyes at him. Dorian left for Quarinus within the week. There were some months still until the Magisterium would reconvene, and for the first time in five years, Dorian could choose exactly where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do.

He was only missing who he wanted to do it with.

*

Bull lost track of time. It worried him, at first. Without the Ben-Hassrath to report to, and then without the Inquisition to work for, and then, _fuck everything_ , without Dorian, days just bled together. Krem kept him present, though, and Bull was constantly on alert for the telltale hum of the crystal around his neck. It made the dragon tooth vibrate. He had activated it to respond a handful of times during combat, and thoroughly enjoyed the scolding Dorian had delivered each time as Bull slammed his axe haft into enemies and cleaved heads, beastly and otherwise, from shoulders.

_Always nice to know you’re worried about me, Kadan._

Koslun’s giant pointy rack, Bull missed him.

It was rough, having to count the weeks, arrange jobs that would take them through the Nevarran countryside so he wouldn’t be too far from wherever Dorian could find them a place to rendez vous. It was rough and then it was… Bull didn’t know he had a word for the constant distress of knowing how much danger Dorian was in, and having no way to get to him. At least, he couldn’t get to him legally, or without risking the Chargers in a way they rarely had been even doing the Inquisition’s errands. A civil fucking war. Tevinter had always had a miserable sense of timing. When they spoke, Dorian would sound brittle, drained, and it was worse because he refused to indulge it. He did everything he could to put a brave face on things, and all Bull could hear was fear and exhaustion.

Torture. Maybe that was the word. Nothing but Dorian’s voice, varying degrees of strained, for months on end. He made Bull tell him stories about what the Chargers were up to over and over again, sometimes read to Bull from scrolls he’d dug up in a deposed Magister’s private library about dragons. They talked about Cadash, where she was, what they’d last heard from her. For the first time, the only thing Dorian wouldn’t talk about was Tevinter’s future. Bull worried.

It was incredible how months piled up into years so quickly.

The Chargers had done a year long tour of Orlais, Fereldan, and were back up into the Free Marches. It was the only way to guarantee Bull wouldn’t run screaming for the closed border of the Tevinter Imperium. Distance. They were making for Antiva where a smaller house was looking to hire them to give them some leverage in a land dispute, and had settled for the night in Seleny when the familiar twin hums of the crystal and the dragon tooth made Bull stand so fast he almost upended the entire table. The Chargers jeered at him as he waved them off and made his made his way upstairs, running his fingertips over the pendant to activate it as he went.

“Kadan.”

“Oh- Bull,” Dorian breathed, sounding relieved, and happy. Tired, like always, but less so, Bull thought.

“Mmn. Missed your voice, ‘Vint. Been a while.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. There was- it’s been quite an eventful time lately.”

“Lately?”

“Well,” Dorian scoffed, which Bull could read as an admittance of his previous comment being an understatement.

“Bull, where are you?”

“Seleny. Beautiful night, here. Just loaded the boys into the bar at the inn, figure we’ll be a week or two.”

“A week or two,” Dorian repeated, thoughtful. Bull almost held his breath, but didn’t let himself, shouldered into his room instead and let the door fall shut behind him.

“Dorian.”

“What about if- do you think Cremisius might be amenable to… running the show?”

For a moment, Bull thought his heart had stopped.

“You got someplace else for me to be, Kadan?”

“I do,” Dorian said quietly, and Bull could hear the way his lover’s smile shaped the words, “as it happens.”

*

For a seaside villa in Tevinter, it wasn’t especially Vinty. It looked mostly stucco, not marble, and had a couple nice sweeping verandas with balustrades that looked like miniature aqueducts. So a little Vinty, but it was missing a certain spiky element. Parts of the walls were decorated with tile mosaics in blue and green and pink. From a distance, it almost melted into the beginnings of the Arlathan Forest. As Bull neared it, it seemed empty. It had obviously been standing for some time, not that it was in disrepair, but it had settled into its surroundings.

He kinda liked it.

There was a large gate, black wood set into stucco arches, and he held one open wide as he walked his mount through it. The horse was Bull’s size twice over again, the tallest damn thing he’d ever seen, legs like trees, incredibly well tempered. Most of the time. Dennet had given him the steed, with his blessing, noting that he didn’t think he’d ever found a better matched horse for a rider. Bull had always like walking, anyway, but Snowdrop was a gamechanger.

Plus, he liked the name.

He tied the horse to a fountain that sat equidistant to the bottoms of two sweeping, semi-circular staircases. The water smelled fresh, and he patted Snowdrop’s shoulder as she began to lip at it. Eying the stairs, Bull went to the right, and followed them up their arching path to the first floor, tiled and clean, and quiet. The windows were tall, most of them open, and beyond them the inside of the house looked cool and airy, but dark. Anticipation thudded in his temples. Tricky Vint bastard. He grinned a little to himself.

The first story patio wrapped around, and he followed it to its first corner, where the he turned left, and saw how far out over the cliffside the house extended. The view was phenomenal. High lattices draped with flowering vines provided cover from the sun, and a figure stood beneath them at the stonework wall that faced the ocean. His back was to Bull, but the set of his shoulders and the color of his hair gave him away. The only sounds were the distant cries of seabirds, and the waves below; a faint, constant rustling of trees in the wind coming off the water; and Bull’s heartbeat, heavy in his own ears.

Dorian- for it had to be Dorian- had let his hair grow long. It was plaited neatly to the bottom of his neck and then twisted into a knot. He was dressed simply, dark grey trousers and boots, the peek of a white collar, probably a tunic, beneath the dark blue linen coat. Bull caught the glimpse of light reflecting off a piercing. So many little changes. He needed to see-

“Nice digs, kadan.”

The man straightened with a sharp intake of breath, and turned immediately to face Bull. He felt a twinge of relief.

The mustache hadn’t changed.

“Bull,” Dorian said, smiling wide, eyes overly bright and not straying from Bull’s face. He slung his axe down off his back and set it against the wall, walking forward, and was met by Dorian, who took longer strides, until he was scant inches before him.

Dorian lifted a hand and touched Bull’s jaw with a reverence that always made him feel like his heart was dropping out of his chest, and Bull brought his hands to cup Dorian’s elbows and biceps, then slid them up and behind until they encompassed the man’s back.

“Amatus,” Dorian said, voice thick enough that it came out as half a whisper. He didn’t bother blinking away the tears that were beginning to cling to his lashes- still long, thick, accentuated with kohl- and Bull drew him close, sliding his arms fully around Dorian’s frame. His face was a bit angular, but he was still solid, muscular beneath his clothes. It had been a long, hard fight, Bull thought.

But he had him back. Real and warm in his grasp. Breath shaking through his ribs enough that Bull could feel the tremor mirrored in his own. He had him back.

“I like this place,” Bull murmured easily, tone belying the thickness in his own throat, the tightness in his own chest. Five fucking years. “It’s homier than the last one.”

“It’s ours,” Dorian laughed, neither manner nor tone belying anything, his joy and relief and the last vestiges of grief as plain on his face as they were in his voice. Bull loved him madly.

“This one is for us.”

They reached for each other in tandem; their lips met. Dorian’s arms were around Bull’s neck and Bull’s hand was buried in the thickest part of Dorian’s hair, and for the first time in five years, Bull felt like he fit in the world. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this one a while ago on the tumbles, and I know for sure it will have additional chapters (the next one about a bed) but after posting that last chapter here is this one IT IS MUCH HAPPIER MUCH KISSINS fewer executions.
> 
> And I have such an immensely clear image in my head of the elf-blooded non-mage Magister that is going to share the Archon's seat as Consul with Dorian and I love her.


	6. Mr and Mr Vint pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> still the honeymoon phase. well, pre-honeymoon phase. well, boning.

The first senses that urge Dorian toward awareness are smell- the scent of rain-fresh air drifting off the water, pushing the jungle’s humidity back- and the more nebulous sort of touch that tells him the sheets he is wrapped in are warm, that sunlight is dappling his skin, but even in its direct path it is a cool, late morning light. A breeze sifts through the room and he hears the gauzy curtains drag against the wooden frames of the floor to ceiling doors, the gentle, faint clack of glass panes in old panels, the creak of the room. Not at all unbidden, memories of the previous evening rush in, and he breathes in deeply the lingering scent of the Tal-Vashoth he’d taken to bed.

Dorian smiles against the sheets.

_They get a bottle from behind the bar after the soldiers and few other patrons have cleared out. The bartender doesn’t stop them. It may as well have been only them in the courtyard to start with, the way they danced, bodies dragging nearer than they ought in what was considered respectable company.Then when it is actually only them in the courtyard, the light rainfall and late hour chasing everyone else away, Dorian winds himself into Bull’s lap and they share drinks from the bottle. When a bead of the smokey brown liquid slips from Dorian’s lip to his chin, then over the edge of his jaw, Bull chases it with his mouth. Dorian tilts his head to give the qunari his throat and just barely stifles the noise drawn from him by the wet warmth of Bull’s tongue over his pulse, his teeth closing briefly, gently over a tendon. They slide their hands over each others’ backs and shoulders and kiss slowly and deeply for a long time. Until walking back to the room proves difficult._

They made it back in close enough to one piece, even if the hotel room no longer is. Dorian rouses himself, pushing up onto his elbows, noting the other side of the bed is cool. He sits up further and sees his own clothing strewn about the place; not Bull’s. He sees his leather satchel, unopened and slouched against the far wall. The weight of disappointment settles in the pit of his stomach, and he is surprised at himself. Sitting with his legs half curled beneath him, white sheets crumpled low around his hips, naked and well fucked and alone in the room, Dorian chides himself.

What had he  _thought_ it was?

When the door opens and the Bull shoulders into the room, Dorian wills the mana out of his fingertips, back into the well where he holds it, his hackles falling and the tension disappearing from his frame.

Bull is holding a tray piled with some white ceramic cups and a haphazard collection of breads and fruit on a plate, and a tall glass carafe of sunny yellow-orange liquid, and a second, opaque one that Dorian immediately knows holds coffee. He blinks for a moment then smiles, then ducks his head to runs his fingers over his mustache in a cursory check. He can see Bull smile indulgently, but not mockingly, in his peripheral vision as he moves to set the tray on the foot of the bed.

“Staff’s a little scarce,” Bull rumbles, keeping his focus mostly- ostensibly- on the cups as he turns them over and pours the coffee out into them, then unstacks twin glass tumblers from where they were hidden behind the carafe and pours out the juice as well. “Rustled up what I could find that looked-”

“Edible?” Dorian suggests, lifting his head now he’s sure he doesn’t look a foolish disaster. Bull pauses in his pouring to meet Dorian’s eye, and smiles. It’s an unnervingly gentle thing.

“Like you would enjoy it.”

For some reason, though it is a ridiculous thought- they’ve known each other fewer than twenty four hours, Bull the Tal-Vashoth couldn't possibly know what Dorian  _likes_ (outside of bed, at least, and for more reasons besides)- the fact that the tray was assembled with Dorian’s potential tastes in mind is… strangely touching. It nearly flusters him. He scoots to the edge of the bed, the tray between himself and Bull, and reaches out to lift a small piece of very flakey croissant with one hand and a glass of the juice in the other. They are both delectable, and he noises his surprised approval. Bull smiles and moves to the open balcony doors with his own glass, taking up a boneless slouch against the door frame that arranges his muscles in an immensely pleasing way, to Dorian’s thinking.

“Oh,” Dorian sighs, sipping the coffee. It’s thick, like it’s been left to brew far too long and with not enough water, and very warm if not steaming hot, and bitter. There is a wonderful flavor in it, though, earthy but graced with something almost like ginger. He wonders if this is how qunari all prefer it. Bull is watching him with interest, but that’s about all he gives away. Dorian wonders what he’s thinking about.

_Bull already has Dorian in his arms when they enter the room, because Dorian is impatient and climbed into them, demanding kisses, legs gripping Bull around his delightfully thick middle, leaving him no real option but to pin Dorian against the door and rut him into the wood as he fumbles with the key._

_In a moment of staggering coordination, when the door pops open and they lose their balance, Bull manages to keep Dorian and himself from falling, and Dorian manages to reach up and catch the lintel, preventing Bull’s horns from colliding rather painfully with it. They both hiccup a breath and are then laughing, kisses open mouthed and searing and so easy, it’s all so damned_ easy _. Bull doesn’t deposit Dorian onto the bed; he settles onto it on his hands and knees, Dorian still clinging, and then rolls their bodies down into the sheets. They stay that way for longer than either might have anticipated, drinking deeply of each other, bodies seeking out a fit, and once they have, Bull bows his head, horns framing Dorian’s, to nose at Dorian’s collar. Bull bites gently, then starts pulling Dorian’s clothes off. He lets him, watches him through his lashes, and doesn’t stop smiling._

“This is exquisite, actually,” Dorian chuckles, looking up from the cup to find Bull’s expression has shifted into something more complicated, but still welcoming.

“I hope so, I had to bribe a cargo ship to get those beans.”

“Oh? Swam into the bay to flag one down?”

"Well, yeah,” Bull answers, grinning, “now that you mention it and it sounds really impressive, yeah, I did.”

They’re smiling at each other, now, like idiots, but Dorian doesn’t feel afraid. He should, he thinks, or at least preemptively guilty. He drinks the rest of the coffee in his small ceramic cup in one go, then drags himself off the bed, idly keeping a hand at his hip where the sheets are haphazardly bunched. He goes to lean against the opposite side of the doorway from Bull, enjoying the sunlight, tilting his face up into it but not looking away from Bull. The drapes waver, billow gently into the room for a moment. Bull does not waver, and the instant they’re out of his way he steps forward, one arm reaching to curve around Dorian as Dorian reaches up to wrap his arms around Bull’s shoulders. It is excessively romantic. And excessively foolish. Dorian teases past the initial gentleness of the kiss, tasting a burst of sweet citrus when his tongue meets Bull’s, knows Bull is tasting the bitter, dark coffee on his own lips. Dorian hears the  _clink_ of Bull’s glass breaking since the big lummox has dropped it. Only to wrap his arm around Dorian, though, and push his now free hand up into the mage’s hair.

_There is a noticeable creak of wood that slows neither of them, quiets them not a bit. Bull’s hand is so tight on the headboard Dorian’s surprised it hasn’t splintered already. His weight bears Dorian down and the pressure, Maker, Dumat, every God that was ever given a name, the pressure of Bull, thick and hard within him and heavy and strong above him, pinning him down, it’s overwhelming. Dorian cannot remember the last time he was overwhelmed. He gives up scrabbling at Bull’s shoulder as an attempt to urge him on and reaches instead for both horns, gripping them, fingers sliding along the grooves until his hands find the perfect spots to stay wrapped around, anchored. He digs his heels into the backs of Bull’s thighs and screws himself against Bull’s weight, hears the rough whine that works from his own throat and Bull’s answering, “Oh, fuck, sweetheart, yeah-”, and then everything is white noise until Dorian’s shout as he comes. It’s loud enough in his own ears that he’s only barely conscious of the sound of teak cracking and several of the decorative wall tiles following suit, landing on the floor behind the headboard with a delicate scrape of shattered ceramic on stone tile._

“Bull,” Dorian murmurs, and the qunari lifts him, and carries him back to the bed, sheet trailing along the floor behind them, to spread him out, breakfast momentarily forgotten. If the world is ending, let it end, Dorian thinks, and draws Bull down into him again, and wraps his arms around him as best he can and doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuuuh one more snippet of this and it'll probably have to be its own thing, huh? hmm.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how many chapters will actually be connected. Maybe something will spring off into its own whole thing! Who knows.


End file.
